United
by Marzella
Summary: After eighteen years of separation, he has finally tracked her down. Ben/Annie. Set during and after the events of The Economist.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: For the purposes of this fic, please ignore the events of 'The Other Woman'; there has only ever been one woman in Ben's life and that's Annie. Also, my German is about as good as Sayid's, so forgive me if the grammar is completely wrong.

* * *

Alone in the semi-darkness of the operating room, Benjamin Linus waited.

He had paid the veterinarian – one Dr. Werner – a large sum of money for the use of the surgery and for his silence. Werner had agreed immediately; the man had debts and Ben had been generous. It was for emergencies only; a place to go if Jarrah was hurt in the line of duty. Neither of them could risk being seen somewhere so public as a hospital.

It was an odd alliance, but so far, it had worked well. Jarrah had proved himself a reliable and expert assassin and Ben took great personal delight in having absolute control over the man who had once subjected him to torture. It had been relatively easy to recruit him after what happened on the freighter and the incident in Irvine. Jarrah was out for vengeance and Ben could point him in the right direction.

They had been in Berlin for several weeks now. Ben knew that Widmore had an employee based here and had sent Sayid to gather information from her, to find clues to the whereabouts of their mutual enemy. An 'economist', he was calling himself. Ben knew exactly what Widmore's work entailed and economics had very little to do with it. Now Sayid had been hurt, after getting too close to the girl and leaving himself vulnerable. It had been his first mistake, but it was a crucial one and Ben was far from impressed. He had something much more important to do that day and this was an irritating distraction. He also regarded Sayid's rather fast recovery time with more than a little distaste. Nadia had only been dead a few months. She had been the reason Sayid was on Flight 815. He had claimed she was the love of his life. Knowing what he did about Sayid's involvement with both Shannon Rutherford and now Widmore's employee, Ben was sceptical.

Widmore's men had approached Sayid soon after his return from the island, wanting answers, asking if the others were still alive. Sayid had refused to co-operate. The next day, he had arrived at Nadia's house to find her body lying in a mess of dried blood on the living-room floor. Ben, who had been monitoring each of the so-called 'Oceanic Six' for some time, had used Sayid's grief and guilt against him, convincing him to become his hired killer. Maybe Sayid had loved her after all, in his own way. It certainly wasn't the same way Ben loved Annie.

He could have looked for her eighteen years ago, after the Purge. If he had chosen to, he could have visited her regularly, splitting his time between Annie and the island. But he hadn't dared. He hadn't wanted to risk Widmore finding out who she was, or her connection to him. He had only ever wanted her to be safe. Since his latest departure from the island, however, the danger had become ten times greater and Ben knew that the best way to protect her now was by changing tactics and keeping her close.

Less than an hour ago, he had finally tracked her down. After months of searching the world for her, hindered by having to work under the radar, he had found out her address and telephone number and could not believe his good fortune. As if fate had willed it that way, drawing them back together without their knowledge, she had been living in Berlin for the last six years, only half an hour's train ride from where he was staying. He walked over to where he had hung up his jacket and retrieved a mobile phone from the pocket. He had memorised her number the first time he had read it, running the digits over and over in his mind ever since. As he began to punch in the numbers on the keypad, he was a little alarmed to discover that his hands were shaking. He brought the phone to his ear and listened to it ring; once, twice, three times, four...

"Hallo?"

She had only said one word but he recognised her voice instantly; gentle, warm, familiar. His Annie.

"Hallo? Wer ist dieses?"

He knew he should speak. He had to say something, now, before she hung up.

"Können Sie mich hören?"

He wanted to hear her speak in English. He wanted to hear her say his name.

"Dieses ist nicht lustig."

This was ridiculous. He couldn't speak now, he had waited too long. It had been a mistake to call her. Her voice wasn't enough; Ben needed to see her again, face to face. It would be the first time they had spoken in eighteen years; it shouldn't be over the phone.

The line went dead. With an almost inaudible sigh, Ben turned the phone off, removed the back and slid out the memory card, then took up a pair of surgical scissors and cut the card into pieces. Outside in the corridor, the dogs began to bark. Quickly composing himself, Ben turned to see Sayid stagger to the doorway. With a great deal of regret, he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to wait a little longer to see Annie.

"Take your shirt off," he instructed.

* * *

_**Eighteen Years **__**Ago**_

"_Annie, you're going to have to leave the island for a while."_

"_What?"_

_She had returned home to find Ben waiting for her in the kitchen, a packed suitcase by the door. _

"_You have to leave today. Now, in fact. I hope you don't mind, I've already packed your things."_

"_Says who? Did Gerald tell you this?"_

"I'm_ telling you. Please, Annie, I don't have time to explain. Do you remember when I told you that there would come a time when I would need you to do something for me and I made you promise you would do it, no questions asked? Well, this is it." _

_She did not move from the doorway. "Tell me what's going on, Ben," she demanded, a steely edge creeping into her voice. _

_He walked over to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Annie. But it's bad. And you can't be here when it happens."_

"_When _what_ hap-"_

"_Annie, listen to me," he said, now gripping both her shoulders and staring at her intently. "You're not safe here. We're going to leave the barracks and head to the north shore of the island. There are some people waiting there for us. They'll take you somewhere safe."_

"_Ben..."_

"_Once you reach land, go wherever you like. Start a new life. There's a Swiss bank account with four million dollars in it in the name of Camille Moriarty. The details are in the case."_

_She recognised the name from a book, but could not recall which. "Who's Camille Moriarty?"_

"_You are." He took something from his pocket and handed it to her: a Swiss passport, pristine and freshly printed. Her photograph was pasted inside, next to this new name and a birth date which was not hers. She stared at it in disbelief. _

"_How did you get this?", she asked. "And where the hell did you get four milli-"_

"_Don't contact anyone from your family and don't talk about this place to a soul. Do you understand?"_

"_Ben-"_

"_Do you understand?" He took hold of her again, almost shaking her. His grip on her shoulders was forceful enough to bruise. _

"_What about my parents?", she said quietly._

"_I'll take care of them." It wasn't a lie, not exactly, but Ben felt a little ashamed at the tastelessness of the double meaning. _

"_What about you?"_

"_I'm needed here." _

"_Will I see you again?", she asked, her voice cracking and her eyes filling with tears._

"_I don't know," he answered, looking down and blinking rapidly. "Just don't try to find me. Ever. It's not safe." _

_She stared at him, long and hard, trying to compose herself. "If things are really that bad, Ben, then there's no way I'm leaving you."_

"_It's for your own good. I need you to be safe, Annie."_

"_I'm serious, Ben. You're going to have to drag me off this island kicking and screaming."_

"_Well, that would draw too much attention. I'd just chloroform you." The look on his face was enough to show that he was deadly serious. They stood in silence for a few moments, inches apart, his hands still holding her arms. _

"_I don't know what I'll do out there without you," she said finally. _

"_I love you, Annie," he said softly, drawing her towards him and holding onto her tightly. "I always will, no matter what happens. I need you to remember that."_

"_When all this is over – whatever it is - you'd better find me again," she said, her tear-stained cheek brushing his own as she whispered into his ear. "Come back to me, Ben, do you hear? I'll be waiting, always."_


	2. Chapter 2

After Sayid had gone back to the hotel, Ben wasted no time in clearing away the instruments, locking up the surgery and rushing to the nearest U-Bahn station. Seeing to Sayid's injury had only caused a delay of fifteen or twenty minutes, but after eighteen years of separation, he resented every second he was without her.

The woman known as Camille Moriarty lived in a large, old house in Wilmersdorf with a red door. There were flowers in her window and a small black cat stretched out on the windowsill snoozing quietly in the cold winter sunlight when Ben arrived. He was wearing his best black suit with a waistcoat and grey shirt and hoped it didn't look too formal, too funereal. He took off his glasses as he approached the door, then wondered if he should keep them on. She had always liked him in his glasses. No. Definitely too formal. He slipped them into his coat pocket, took a deep, shaky breath and rang the doorbell.

He wondered if she would look different. She would be older, of course, and that would take some getting used to. For eighteen years, Ben had had the same image of her in his mind; a girl, bright-eyed and smooth-skinned and forever twenty-two years old. He was well aware that he had aged too. In a moment of dreadful, shallow insecurity, he worried that she would no longer find him attractive. He worried how he would broach the subject of Alex. He worried about how much he should tell her about the Purge, about Dharma and Widmore and why he sent her away. He worried that she would not recognise him. He worried she would want nothing to do with him at all.

He rang the bell again, wondering why she had not answered the door and hoping he had not called when she was out. Should he leave and come back, he wondered, or simply sit on her doorstep and wait for her to return? Another twenty seconds went by and he realised he was holding his breath. This was not how it was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be perfect. She was supposed to answer the door, then gasp in amazement, then cry, then fall into his arms, then... She was definitely not supposed to be out.

Reluctant to give up so easily, Ben tried the door handle and was surprised to find the door unlocked. Maybe she simply didn't hear the bell. He smiled inwardly as he remembered how she used to work with headphones clamped to her ears, lost in the music and oblivious to his attempts to engage her in conversation. He walked inside quietly, carefully pushing the door closed behind him. The hallway was immense compared to the modest house they had shared in the barracks, with several doors leading off into various rooms and a staircase curving upwards to the first floor. The décor showed impeccable taste; Ben had expected nothing less. He wondered if he should call out, but decided against it. He wanted to surprise her.

The first door on his right was ajar. He could see wooden floorboards, the edge of an armchair and part of what may have been a bookcase. The light was dim, as if the curtains had been drawn. Moving very quietly, he walked over to the door and gently pushed it open. What he saw made him cry out in horror.

She was lying in the middle of the floor, motionless, in a spreading pool of blood, two gunshot wounds in her chest. Ben sank down next to her, trembling, almost unable to breathe. Her eyes were open; still the same, warm brown, but now dull and lifeless. Her cheeks and lips had not yet lost their colour and the blood on the floor was still fresh. She could not have been dead longer than twenty minutes.

"Oh God...", he whispered, touching her face, hoping he was wrong, that she was somehow still alive. "Oh please, no...".

A scream from behind him made him leap to his feet and grab the gun from his jacket. A woman, around sixty, stood frozen in the doorway, a look of terror on her face. "Nein, nein bitte!", she screamed, turning to run.

"Stay where you are," Ben commanded, and the woman stopped, turning back to face him slowly. "Do you speak English?"

"Yes," she answered. "Please... please don't hurt me."

"Who did this?"

"I... I thought _you_... Oh, Camille..."

"Who are you?"

"I... I clean for Frau Moriarty." Her voice was shaking so much her speech was almost incomprehensible.

"Calm down," Ben ordered. "Did she tell you she was in danger?"

"Danger? No. Camille, she-"

"Her name was Annie."

"No..."

"You call her Annie, do you understand?"

She recoiled, her lip quivering. "Yes. I'm sorry. Please..."

"Did she ever mention someone named Charles Widmore?"

"I... no. I do not remember that name, no. No men."

"What do you mean, 'no men'?"

"She had no husband. No, ah, no... boyfriends. No men in this house," the woman explained. "She told me she was waiting. Waiting for someone to come back to her. She would never tell me his name. She said she had been waiting for eighteen years."

Ben had tried to be realistic. He had of course remained faithful to Annie, but, much as it pained him, he had fully expected that she would have found someone else. But she never had. She had loved him, waited for him, right to the end. If he had not spent most of his life perfecting the art of appearing unfazed under pressure, he knew he would have lost all control on hearing those words.

The telephone on the table rang shrilly, causing the woman to jump violently. "Answer it," he told her.

The woman picked up the receiver with a shaking hand. "Ja?", she said, her voice a nervous squeak. There was a moment's pause as she listened to the caller, then she held out the receiver to Ben. "He wants to speak with you."

Ben snatched the phone and held it to his ear. "Yes?"

"I trust I'm speaking to Benjamin Linus?" The voice was chillingly familiar; English, refined and very, very cold.

"Yes."

"This is Charles Widmore."

"I know who you are."

"Your wife is very beautiful, Mr. Linus. Such a terrible shame."

Ben gripped the receiver, his knuckles turning white.

"And such a tragic story, I believe," Widmore continued. "Waiting for you all those years. How very romantic."

Ben did not reply. His head was swimming and he was so angry he could hardly breathe, let alone speak, but he knew he could not stay silent for much longer.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Linus. You can't wage war and not expect some form of retaliation. You don't seriously think you're going to win, do you?"

"I don't think you're fully aware of who you're dealing with," Ben said eventually, somehow managing to keep his voice level. "You've seen what I've done already, which should tell you I'm not a man who lets injuries against those I love go unavenged. I'm always willing to do what is necessary to win. In the case of your imminent death, however, I think I'll actually enjoy it too."

"Mm. I've heard you can talk the talk, as it were. Very threatening. You'll forgive me if I'm not quaking in fear at the thought of you and your pet Iraqi hunting me down."

"I always have a plan, Widmore. Do you imagine this changes that fact?"

"No, I don't," said Widmore. "But it's broken your heart, Mr. Linus. Do you imagine my death will change _that_?"

The line went dead. Slowly, Ben replaced the receiver, staring straight ahead, his lips pressed together in a thin, furious line.

"Who was that?", the woman asked, staring warily at him.

"A dead man," he answered coldly.

"I call the police," she offered, stepping towards the phone.

"No."

"Then... what?"

"I'm so sorry," he said softly.

He barely had to look at her as he raised his gun and pulled the trigger. She dropped to the floor inelegantly and lay there in a heap, breathing raggedly for a few seconds until her head slumped to one side, her mouth lolling open.

Ben returned to Annie's side, hardly able to look at her. Her face and hands were growing cold to the touch. His followers on the island used to hold the belief that nothing ever got to Ben, nothing ever managed to crack the surface of his cold, detached demeanour. They were wrong, of course. He just never let his emotions show in front of them. He had always been somewhat proud of this image of himself that he had created and maintained for years, and there was still work for that man to accomplish. He knew that if he allowed the grief inside him to well to the surface now, it would be beyond his capabilities ever to suppress it again.

Very slowly, he stood, reluctant to let go of Annie's cold hands. He half-thought about covering her up or moving her, wanting to give her some degree of dignity, but he knew that would be unwise. Even though the thought almost tore him apart, he knew he would simply have to abandon her. For the second time in his life – for the last time - Benjamin Linus would have to let Annie go.

* * *

The news report had interrupted the programme Sayid was half-watching as he lay stretched out on the hotel bed, his wound still aching beneath its dressing. Although his grasp of German was still very basic, he could understand the newsreader well enough. A double murder, two women, one aged forty, one in her sixties, in a wealthy area of Wilmersdorf. Names – Silke Hoffmann, who seemed to be the older woman, and Camille Moriarty. He recognised the second name and the picture they displayed on the screen. Ben had never found out about Sayid discovering the file he kept hidden in the vet's surgery, full of photographs and documents, all relating to the same woman. In the file, she looked younger, but it was unmistakeably her. He wondered why Ben had seen it necessary to kill her. It sickened him slightly that he had assumed it had been 'necessary' at all. Sighing to himself, he realised that he had been working for Benjamin Linus far too long.

A sharp knock on the door drew his attention from the TV. He slid off the bed and went to answer it. Ben stood outside; his coat flecked with snowflakes, his face drained of colour. He looked chilled to the bone, as if he had been outside in the freezing air for hours. His blue eyes, usually menacing and all-knowing, looked tired and haunted.

"Pack your things," he ordered. "We leave in five minutes."

"Where are we going?", Sayid asked.

"We're going after Charles Widmore."

"So soon?"

"It's time."

Without another word, Sayid walked over to the wardrobe and began to pull out clothes and shoes, stuffing them into a small suitcase with no particular care. Despite his instincts, the past weeks had taught him not to argue with his employer too much. Ben was still hovering in the doorway, resting a hand against the frame. "Do you remember what she looked like when you found her?", he asked quietly.

"I'm sorry?", said Sayid, setting down the shirt he was holding and turning to look at Ben.

"Nadia. When you found her."

"I..."

"You would remember." Sayid recognised those deliberately chosen words; they had once been his, when things were different, when the power balance had been reversed. He locked eyes with Ben, trying to work out what was really behind the question and, after a moment of silence, suddenly everything fell into place.

"She looked even more beautiful than I had remembered," he answered finally.

"Yes," said Ben, nodding slightly, his eyes fixed on some distant point. "Yes..."

Sayid had never seen Ben like this; vulnerable, affected. If he wanted to, he thought, he could make things worse for him. He could twist the knife a little, use what had happened to hurt him. Or he could use it to manipulate him, as Ben had used Nadia, and try to regain a little power. But for some reason, he found he could not bring himself to do either.

"I never knew," he said instead.

"You never knew what?", Ben snapped. "That someone like me was capable of love?"

"That's not what I meant."

"All I wanted to do was keep her safe," he murmured, more to himself than to Sayid. "She would have been better off staying on the island. I could have had years with her... I didn't even speak to her when I called. If I had..."

He stopped mid-sentence, as if realising how out-of-character he was behaving, then steadied himself and fixed Sayid with his usual glare.

"Finish packing. I'll be waiting outside. We never speak of this again," he said, and turned to leave.

"Ben."

He turned back.

"I promise you, even if it's the last thing I ever do, I will kill him."

The haunted look had vanished from Ben's eyes, replaced with something colder, something calculating and vengeful. "Be sure that you do," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Eighteen Years Ago**_

"_Birds singing in the sycamore tree... Dream a little dream of me..."_

_Ben pushed open the bathroom door, a cloud of steam escaping as he entered. Although the glass surrounding the shower was misted with condensation, he could see Annie's slim form standing under the water, her dark hair tinged white with shampoo suds. Abruptly, she stopped singing and he saw her turn round and wipe her eyes. "Can't a girl have any privacy?", she called._

_He smiled and moved over to the sink. "I think you surrender that right when you spend almost an hour washing your hair."_

_She did not reply, too busy rinsing out the shampoo. He began to brush his teeth, but stopped when he heard a squeaking noise beside him. Turning back to the shower cubicle, he saw that Annie had drawn a vertical line in the condensation on the glass. "What are you doing?", he asked._

_She replied by tracing another line, which became a letter L. Ben watched with interest as she wrote, saying nothing until she had finished the message: _

_I LOVE YOU._

_He examined the glass for a moment. "Your 'E' is backwards," he told her. _

"_Dammit," she muttered, almost inaudible over the pounding water. He smiled; her perfectionism often rivalled his own. He could almost see her face reddening as it always did when she was annoyed with herself. "Well?", she added after a few moments. _

"_Well what?"_

"_You're not going to write back?"_

"_The condensation is on the inside, Annie."_

"_Oh dear," she said with mock dismay. "I guess you'll just have to come in here then, won't you?" _

* * *

"Can I get you any more coffee, sir?"

Ben looked up into the smiling face of the English stewardess. She was caked in make-up with thick, spidery eyelashes and smelled far too strongly of synthetic roses. "Oh. No, thankyou," he answered with a slim, courteous smile that failed to reach his eyes.

"Well, you just let me know if you need anything, OK love?", she beamed, before moving onto the next row of seats. On his brief but frequent trips off-island, Ben had found to his surprise that the women he encountered – stewardesses, shop assistants, hotel receptionists – always seemed to go out of their way to assist and be polite to him. He had figured out long since that this was nothing to do with his personality. It was his stature and non-threatening demeanour, involuntarily giving them the impression that he needed to be mothered, to be looked after. They never noticed the resentful, indignant glare in his eyes, or the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he longed to enlighten them as to the kind of man he really was. All they saw was fragility. All they saw, he thought to himself with a bitter realisation, was Henry Gale.

Annie had never thought him fragile or weak. He wondered, rather vainly, if she had been the only woman to have found him attractive. In all his time on the island, no other woman had shown an interest and he surmised that this was down to revulsion rather than fear. He would have rejected any advances had they come, of course. He had no desire at all for any of the other women. Only her. Always her.

'_Ladies and gentlemen, as we will shortly be landing at London Gatwick, we ask all passengers to return their seats to the upright position with trays folded away for your own safety and comfort_. _Thankyou_.'

He pulled his seatbelt around his middle and clicked the clasp into place, then turned his head to look at the view outside, expecting to see nothing but wisps of cloud. There was a fine mist coating the outside of the window and he could barely see anything at all. He peered closer to try and make out some detail, when his eye was caught by something in the bottom left-hand corner. Ben's chest grew tight and his heart began to pound as he saw what it was. A scrawled message, written in tiny letters:

THEY NEED YOU.

* * *

Sayid drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and watched the droplets of rain run down the windscreen in erratic lines. His plane had landed two hours earlier than Ben's flight was due to arrive, and after exhausting the few possibilities of entertainment in the arrivals area – uninviting coffee shop, uninspiring newsagents' – he had chosen to sit in the hired car and wait for his employer to join him, wondering with some annoyance why Ben insisted on separate flights, but seemed perfectly comfortable with treating Sayid as his personal chauffeur.

After another twenty minutes had passed, the passenger door opened, blowing freezing rain into the car. Ben, wrapped in a thick coat, slipped into the seat, hurriedly closing the door and running a hand over his damp hair. "Well?", he said, glaring at Sayid. "You do know how to drive, don't you?"

Sighing, Sayid started the engine and manoeuvred the car out of its parking space. "Now that we're in London, am I to understand that you have a plan?", he asked, his eyes fixed on the road.

"After all this time working for me, Sayid, that really is an idiotic question," Ben replied, with no small degree of scorn.

"Do you intend to share it with me?"

"Well, theoretically, there are a number of ways of getting to Charles Widmore," Ben explained, removing his leather gloves as the car's heater kicked in. "For one thing, he does love his daughter very much."

Sayid tensed, his hands gripping the wheel. "I want no part of that," he said stiffly.

"Oh, relax. I don't murder innocent people, I've already explained that. That's why we're the good guys, Sayid."

Sayid scoffed. "Oh, is it?"

"Among other reasons. No, I always find that the simplest way is often the most effective. So we're just going to walk into his house and kill him."

Sayid glanced over at Ben, wondering if this was his strange idea of a joke. Ben fixed him with a level stare.

"I'm sorry if that's not quite James Bond enough for you, Sayid, but that's the way it is."

"How on earth do you expect us to walk into Widmore's home and..."

"I'll explain everything in due course. I'll even use a flipchart if it'll help you understand. How far is it to the hotel?"

"We should be there in half an hour," Sayid replied, knowing from experience that it would do no good asking further questions.

Ben turned away to stare out of the passenger window, his elbow resting on the door. He had been unusually quiet ever since they had left Berlin that morning; the haunted, troubled look Sayid had seen in his eyes often returning when he thought he was not being watched. He had not said a single word in the taxi to the airport and now he had lapsed into silence again. If it had been anyone else, Sayid would have asked about Camille Moriarty. He would have tried to offer words of comfort, or at least show some sign of support. Instead, he kept his eyes on the road ahead and concentrated on driving.

It was almost fifteen minutes before Ben spoke again, as they pulled to a halt at a red light. "Turn the radio off," he said, still facing the window.

"Excuse me?"

"Turn it off."

Sayid stared in bafflement at his employer. "The radio isn't switched on," he told him. "It's broken. I tried it earlier."

Ben turned to him, his face very pale. "What?" He leaned forward to examine the radio, pressing buttons at random, producing no response from it. Sayid could only stare, a little fearful that Ben had completely lost his mind.

Ben leaned back, his lips pressed together. "Green light," he said. "Get moving."

* * *

Ben had much preferred his suite in Berlin. This hotel room was darker and more cramped and had clearly not been aired for some time. He hung his coat in the wardrobe and sat on the bed, unsure of what to do. He did not feel hungry, or thirsty. He had no desire to read or watch TV. He felt tired and somehow hollow, as if he might collapse and shatter into pieces at any moment, but he knew there was little point in trying to sleep. More than anything, he felt painfully alone. Ben had always been something of a solitary man - excepting those few blessed years when Alex had still loved him and had wanted to spend her days in his company – but he had never felt particularly lonely. He had always been able to tell himself that, however many miles away she was, Annie was still out there in the world somewhere, and draw comfort from that thought. Now, however, there was nothing left to comfort him.

The first tear had rolled halfway down his cheek before he even realised he was crying. It was an unusual experience for him, but one he found that he no longer had the strength to resist as more tears came, rapid and unstoppable. He slumped forward, his head in his hands, and began to rock gently backwards and forwards, his breaths becoming increasingly ragged and difficult.

"_Stars fading, but I linger on, dear... Still craving your kiss..."_

He brought his head up sharply, hearing the song which he had heard playing so clearly on the broken car radio. It was just a moment, a brief snatch of noise, but he had definitely heard it again, too distinct to have come from a neighbouring room. He would not have recognised the voice of Cass Elliot had Annie not played the song to death after they had married and moved in together.

"Ben."

She had only said one word but he recognised her voice instantly. Wiping the tears roughly from her eyes, he finally saw her. She was standing inside the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, smiling softly. She wore the same white shirt and jeans he had seen her in that morning, but now there were no wounds, no blood. He tried to speak, to say her name, but the words stuck in his throat and all he could do was stare.

"Please don't cry," she said. "They need you."

He stood and made to move towards her, but the image vanished, leaving no trace that Annie had ever been there. He touched the glass tentatively, finding nothing out of the ordinary, then leaned heavily on the wardrobe, fearing his legs were about to give way. As he leant his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, he thought about how she had looked. Beautiful, of course, and clearly not in any pain, but she did not seem happy. There had been a look in her eyes; a certain sadness, as if she was not entirely at peace. Ben knew how to read a look like that. He had seen it before, in the eyes of his mother. Twice now, Annie had told him he was needed. Perhaps, he thought, if he completed his task, he would see her again. The sooner Widmore died, the sooner she would return. He stood upright, a little shakily, taking several deep breaths, each steadier than the last. Eventually, when he felt able, he moved back across the room and picked up the phone on the bedside table. A bored-sounding female voice answered and Ben asked to be put through to another room. He listened to the phone ring three times, before Sayid answered.

"Meet me in the bar in ten minutes," Ben said. "We need to discuss the plan. Oh, and Sayid? I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but I lied about the flipchart."

He replaced the receiver and sat back down on the bed. Wit was always a very useful thing to hide behind. He had relied upon it for years. Alone in the dark, musty room, tears still drying on his face, Ben realised that it was really the only thing he had left.


	4. Chapter 4

The plan, such as it was, was crude to say the least; lacking any of Ben's usual sophistication and guile. He preferred to play the long game - breaking down his target's defences little by little, using psychological warfare before the physical – but now he no longer cared. All he cared about was vengeance, and the remote hope that killing Widmore would somehow deliver Annie back to him.

And so, abandoning any pretensions of tactical thinking, Ben simply opened his wallet; offering obscenely generous bribes to all of Widmore's security and housekeeping staff, requesting that they leave their posts at the agreed time and turn a blind eye to whatever took place. He had intended to have Sayid deal with those who refused, but none did. Loyalty, Ben had learned over the last few months, was a very fragile thing, particularly when the staff appear to be as wholly immoral as their employer. Everything can be bought if one has enough money. That had been Widmore's philosophy before, and Ben had despised it. Now he was resorting to the same methods. Under different circumstances, he would be thoroughly ashamed of himself.

He had reminded Sayid over and over how crucial this last assignment was; how it would mean the difference between life and death for everyone left on the Island. What he hadn't told him was that the bribes and preparation costs had left Ben practically penniless. If they failed, there would be no more chances for either of them.

* * *

It had been almost suspiciously easy for Sayid to gain entrance to Widmore's home; a simple case of stealth, timing and the ability to pick a lock. Ben's plan was indeed straightforward, so much so that, had anyone else come up with it, Sayid would have asked more questions or possibly refused to play a part. But Ben knew how to get results. Ben always had a plan. And, he told himself repeatedly, Ben would be well and truly out of his life once it was finished.

He moved almost silently along the corridor, the gun ready in his hand. Widmore's housekeeper had, in return for a rather large bundle of cash, informed Ben that Widmore kept to his study in the evenings and described the location of the room within the almost labyrinthine mansion. Sure enough, Sayid could make out a thin sliver of light under the closed door. He paused and took a few deep breaths, steadying his nerves, then approached the door and knocked.

He heard Widmore's muffled voice from inside: "Enter."

Raising the gun, ready to aim and fire as rapidly as possible, Sayid's left hand located the doorknob and turned it slowly.

Then the shot rang out.

Sayid staggered back from the door and collapsed to his knees, the gun falling from his hand as he clutched at his chest, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood. A moment later, the now-damaged door opened and Widmore stood casually over him, his own gun hanging loosely in his grip. "Good evening, Mr. Jarrah," he said, a cold smile playing at his lips. "No, please, don't get up."

Sayid could only gasp for air, his eyes wide as he stared at the other man in disbelief.

"So, the plan was to somehow get rid of my security team," Widmore said, "then disable all the cameras in the house. Hm. A little unsophisticated, but it might just have worked. If you hadn't missed one."

Feeling dizzy and weak, Sayid shot out a hand to steady himself against the wall, but his strength had all but left him and he slumped to the floor, his eyes half-closed, his breathing laboured. Widmore crouched down beside him and met his pained, despairing gaze. "I saw you coming from all the way down the hall," he explained. "It was a nice try, Mr. Jarrah, but as you can see, even when I'm alone, I'm not entirely defenceless. Never mind though. Well played."

As Sayid felt his final breath escape his lungs, he remembered what Nadia had written the last time he had seen her alive; that she would see him in the next life, if not in this one. He hoped she was right. He hoped that she at least knew he had tried.

Widmore surveyed Sayid's body for a few moments with a cold, indifferent expression, then reached over and picked the phone up from the floor where it had fallen from Sayid's pocket as he fell. Examining it, he found with no surprise whatever that there was only one number programmed into the contacts list. Rising to his feet, he strode back into his study. It was time to call Benjamin Linus again.

* * *

The phone in Ben's coat pocket vibrated gently. He retrieved it and brought it to his ear. "Is it done?", he asked. "Sayid?"

"I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but the Iraqi failed." Ben could hear the amused satisfaction in Widmore's voice at the other end of the line. "I have to say, I expected better of you, Mr. Linus. Full marks for getting him inside, but one man and one gun? Risks like that only ever pay off in bad films. And you seemed like such a realist."

"Curses, foiled again," Ben replied as nonchalantly as possible, moving towards the door, his footsteps making no sound on the thick carpet.

"Oh, don't try to pretend that wasn't your final attempt, Mr. Linus. If you were desperate enough for that, you're clearly out of options. Either that or you're just losing your touch. Perhaps it's the grief. I hear it's rather traumatic, losing a loved one like that."

"I told Sayid that the simplest plan is often the best one," said Ben, his left hand resting on the door handle. "You're not as bright as you think you are."

"Were your friend Sayid still breathing, I'm sure he'd disagree with you."

Ben smiled, a thin, humourless smirk, then tossed the phone onto the floor, pulled the gun from his coat, flung the door open and fired. Widmore's eyes widened as he slumped to the floor, propped up against the desk, blood streaming from his stomach.

"Misdirection," Ben explained, stepping into the study. "Another staple of bad movies, I believe."

"You... you sent him here to die?", Widmore gasped, hopelessly trying to stem the flow of blood with his hands. "You were in the... the next room and you-"

"Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Honestly, Charles, do you really imagine I'd forget to turn that last camera off? Give me a little more credit. No, I let you watch him, I let you kill him and I let you believe you'd won. You've been at this game long enough, Charles; you should know that it's always at those moments when you're at your most vulnerable. Your mistake, of course, was imagining that I wouldn't want to get my hands dirty, when really, I just wanted the satisfaction of dealing with you myself."

'_Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"...'_

At the sound of the music – faint and short-lived, but distinct enough - both Ben and Widmore suddenly turned to the window to see Annie standing there, looking as solid and real as the two men. She looked younger and her hair was long, falling over her shoulders. She was wearing a simple, elegant white dress that Ben recognised instantly. It had worked. She had come back.

"You're supposed to be dead," Widmore said, more confused than afraid.

"I am dead," she answered, polite yet cold, "but I'm also here."

"I... I don't understand." His face contorted in pain as he clutched at his stomach. Blood was pooling around him, spreading darkly across the carpet.

"No, you don't," Ben snapped. "Which is why I don't want you anywhere near my island." He raised the gun and aimed it squarely at Widmore's chest. "Everything I have done, I did for that place," he said, his gaze steady. "But this is for her."

He fired, just once, and it was over.

Returning the gun to his coat, Ben turned back to the window. "Annie...", he began.

"Let's go outside," she said, glancing a little uneasily at the bodies of Sayid and Widmore before opening another door to her right and stepping out into the garden. Ben followed, his eyes never leaving her as she walked lightly over the grass, the breeze blowing her hair back off her face. After a long pause, Ben was finally able to speak.

"Is it really you?", he asked warily, "or just the island?"

She pursed her lips thoughtfully as she considered how to asnwer. "I'm me," she said slowly, "and I'm the island, and I'm a hell of a lot of other things even you couldn't understand. But mainly, I'm just me."

"You're wearing your wedding dress."

"So I am." She smiled warmly, reassuringly. "I'm glad you noticed."

He dropped his gaze, feeling thoroughly undeserving of that smile. "I'm so sorry, Annie," he said.

"What for?"

"For sending you away. For getting you killed. There's quite a long list."

"I know," she said softly. "I know everything you've done, Ben."

"Then I don't even want to imagine what you think of me." He looked off to the side, trying to avoid meeting her gaze. If she really had seen everything he had done, seen the man he had become in those eighteen years without her, he could not fathom why she should choose to speak to him now.

"That's the thing about being in my position," she explained. "You get a better view on things. You get to see the big picture."

"Do you see anything else?", he asked, not sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

"You need to go home. Your people need you."

"I think they've made it perfectly clear that they don't. Not any more."

"What people want and what they need are often very different." She stepped towards him, her gaze steady. "Take back what's yours, Ben. Go home, before there's no home left for you to go to."

The night air had grown bitterly cold and Ben's hands were freezing, but Annie did not even shiver in her thin dress. "Will I see you again?", he asked her quietly.

"You'll see me if I'm needed."

He finally looked directly at her, his eyes pleading. "I need you now," he said, stepping closer to her. "I always need you."

She shook her head gently. "No, you always _want_ me. And I think we just covered all that. Look at all the things you've done, Ben. You did all of it without me."

"Victories feel pretty empty when you have no one to share them with."

"No one ever said it was fair," she told him, a harder note in her voice. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're saving your island, Ben. You're saving the world. As far as destinies go, that's not bad."

He smiled a little then, despite himself. "Eighteen years apart, and all you can do is tell me off," he said.

"Not much changes, huh?", she laughed.

He paused as she stared at him intently. "I don't suppose I can touch you?", he asked.

"Well, that would defy all logic now, wouldn't it?".

He nodded, unable to keep the disappointment from his face. She moved in closer, leaving only inches between them.

"Worth a try though," she said, her gentle smile becoming almost mischievous.

Slowly, tentatively, as if he feared she might evaporate on contact, Ben brought a shivering hand up to touch her face. His breath caught as she leaned into him and he felt the icy coldness of her skin. "Annie, you're freezing," he said. "Here." He pulled her close and wrapped his winter coat around both their bodies. He remembered how she had constantly complained of being cold on the island and how it had always irritated everyone; one especially mild summer evening, she had shivered so much she had borrowed Ben's sweater for warmth. When she gave it back to him, it had smelled of her.

"It won't help, you know," she said, a little sadly, her hands reaching up inside the coat to rest on his chest. "Not that I'm complaining."

They stood in silence, Ben savouring every moment of his proximity to her, knowing that he did not have long before she left him again. He was rarely silent in company and there was an infinite number of things he was desperate to say to her, but he knew that none of them would be enough to keep her with him. Her sad brown eyes met his as she tilted her face upwards and his hand slid from her cheek to her hair.

For the first time in eighteen years, they kissed.

Annie's lips were almost unbearably cold, but Ben couldn't have cared less. Her kiss was slow and tender, her hands tugging gently at his shirt to draw him in deeper. He buried his hand in her hair, never wanting to let go, momentarily forgetting the cold and the sadness and losing himself entirely in her. Finally she broke from the kiss and Ben's stomach churned as he expected her to step away and leave him. Instead, she stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear, her lips brushing his skin: "I am so proud of you."

The sound of footsteps and raised voices from the house made Ben suddenly whip his head round to make sure they had not been seen. In that instant, he felt her hair slip from his fingers and her hands push away from him. He turned back, wanting to hold onto her, to make her stay longer, but she was gone.

His breath steamed in the cold night air and he drew his coat tightly around him. As the footsteps grew steadily closer, he turned and walked out of the garden; within seconds, he had blended into the shadows, unseen and unheard. He continued to walk purposefully, his pace quickening as he rounded a corner and headed along a narrow, winding street. The pavement was silent and deserted, but Ben no longer felt alone. He could still feel the coldness of her lips and her breath on his skin. She was out there somewhere; she was watching over him and he would see her again. But not yet. He still had work to do. He had no idea how he would reach the island again, but he would find a way to raise the money; after all, he always had a plan. He would find his way home somehow. He was needed.


End file.
